These Bloodstone warriors know that better than anyone. My blue kyanite stone necklace reminds them I am from the tribe that helped bring an end to their magic.
Forty summers ago, our chieftain pleaded to the high gods. Called for an end to the Bloodstone and their darkness.
I am everything the Bloodstone hate and shun.
My heart thrums in my ears as we step inside my small tent. A few days ago, I foolishly believed if I offered myself to a Bloodstone warrior, I would be allowed to stay.
He didn’t take my bait.
Now, I don’t know what to do to compel these people. Healing Leah hadn’t been enough.
My heart thrums harder and harder as I ask Kassandra a question, a pointed question, a question I must know. “What will happen to me?”
Kindness glints in Kassandra’s eyes as she speaks. “The council will decide your Fate.”
Vivid memories play across my thoughts. The Malachites’ pleas. The long-haired man striking them with arrows. The way the condemned fell.
“Do you mind…” I swallow and voice my question pensively. “…if I ask why those Malachites were killed?”
She runs an unsteady hand against her surcoat and shake her head. “I don’t mind if you ask. Malachite warriors attacked us a week ago. Our warriors killed most of them. But those four men were captured by Cenric, the man who executed them today.”
The hem of my surcoat brushes the dirt-packed ground as I step back. “Thank you.”
Kassandra pauses near the tent flap and turns back to me. “I hope they decide in favor of you staying.” She weaves compassion into her words the way others weave bitterness.
She steps from the tent, and the linen flap settles into place.
If they allow me to stay, I can move to step two. The first step was making contact with the Bloodstone people. The next will be diving deep into their culture and being fully accepted. Only then will I be able to get close enough to Roland to carry out his execution.
But none of that can happen until I get through the Bloodstone council.
ChapterSix
Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Indigo. Violet. It takes each one of those to make a brilliant rainbow, to create colors so vibrant that the moment you spot it, it steals your breath.
Two days after the brutal execution of the Malachites, I think of that beauty as I sit cross-legged on my plain but well-crafted bed. Even the washing stand isn’t elaborate. It serves its function. Maybe that’s what these bloodstone people prefer—items that simply serve their function.
My gaze shifts to my leather satchel tied to the belt at my waist. Inside its leather folds are all the items I took with me when I left Kyanite land.
Nothing else mattered. No jewels. No fancy gowns. Not that I owned any of those things.
Maybe my herbs will serve a function for the Bloodstones. Even if they had magic, they wouldn’t have healers with the ability to cast spells. That isn’t the way the six tribes of Tarrobane work. Each tribe has different types of gifts.
As a young girl, Mother told me the Kyanites have light, the aptitude to heal. Malachites have earth, the ability to change the world around them. The Bloodstone people once had darkness, the skills to weave cruel spells.
The memory of an older woman, whose face was covered in deep, painful-looking scars, haunts me. Of all the people I met on my journey here, it is her voice I hear most clearly. She said a Bloodstone woman cursed her when she was a girl. She didn’t say why. And I didn’t need to hear the details to know it was unwarranted.
The tent flap lifts, and I look up, expecting Kassandra. But it’s not Kassandra who steps into my shelter. A brawny warrior with intense black eyes moves into my dwelling, my safety, my security. Those eyes stare into mine, drawing a line of fear to my heart. A line so fierce it steals my breath.
At full height, his head nearly brushes the roof of the tent. Scars crisscross his face like a tapestry of horror. His weapon belt contains a broad sword and three daggers. A necklace made of pelican bones hangs around his beefy neck. A piece of linen covers his nose and mouth.
“You’re the Kyanite,” he says, his voice muffled by the material.
“What do you want?” I ask in the calmest voice I can assemble.
Quicker than a breath, he moves closer, removes a glass jar from his cloak and yanks off the lid, spilling a cloudy liquid from the vial. It engulfs the room and snakes up my legs. I gasp, eyes watering as I fight the overwhelming urge to slumber.
Fear slams into my chest as I stumble from the bed, trying to evade him. He reaches out, grabs me around the waist, and hauls me off my feet. A scream splits the air. My scream.
